


Blessed are the Courageous

by Reylinne



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: A lot - Freeform, Alternate Canon, Arthur is a funny drunk, Arthur's Journal, But it's okay, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Friendships, Difficult Decisions, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, John and Arthur get into arguments, John is sick of everyone's bullshit, Light Angst, M/M, Micah is an asshole, Mild Language, Slow Burn, They argue literally a lot, Which is my favourite thing about him, eventually, they're gonna be best friends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-07 10:09:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17364014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reylinne/pseuds/Reylinne
Summary: John Marston has a lot of growing up to do. He's got a history of bad decisions and a competitive nature, and Arthur Morgan is really done with all of his bullshit....And maybe Arthur distracts him a little bit too much.They've just gotta have a little bit of faith.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _"So do not fear, for I am with you. All who rage against you will surely be ashamed and disgraced; those who oppose you will be as nothing and perish. Though you search for your enemies, you will not find them. Those who wage war against you will be as nothing at all."_

 

 

It isn't  supposed to end up like this.

Arthur is supposed to be here.

“Shit, Arthur, it's not supposed to end up like this.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Just what in the _hell_ do you think you're doin’!?”

 _Smack._ Right to the back of the head.

“Ouch, Jesus, Morgan, what is wrong with you!?” John's hand flies up to shield his scalp from further assault.

“What's wrong with _me?_ That's rich, coming from you, boy,” Arthur says, crouching down next to John and his wall made out of bushes. It's late in the evening, nightfall looming ever closer and John has been caught in a predicament. “You should _not_ be doin’ this, you perverted little rat!” The blond man ducks his head down and peeks through the hole in the brush before audibly grunting. “Christ's sake, John.” He backs up a little bit and lets himself sit flat on the ground before planting his elbows on his knees.

John rises up from his planking position, rolling his eyes at Arthur. “Why not? No harm done.”

“You're looking at women without their consent!” Arthur exclaims. He looks very offended at this, for something that doesn't directly involve him. At least he's chivalrous in that aspect, right?

“Like I said, no harm done. What they don't know, don't hurt ‘em,” John folds his arms across his chest. “What are you gonna do, tell on me? Because, way I see it, is that you likewise just took a look for yourself.”

Arthur opens his mouth in protest, but no words come out.

“That's what I thought.” John stands up and pats Arthur on the head as he sneaks his way back into the main area of camp.

“John Marston! You come back here right now!”

John can hear the older man calling out for him from in the trees, but he ignores him. He manages to slip past Hosea talking with Miss Grimshaw and settle in at the fire just as the rest of the girls return from the river. John smirks to himself.

“Evening, ladies,” Uncle coos from his spot across the way, getting ignored by every single one of the passersby.

The spots around the fire begin to fill in, save for a couple of loners spread across the camp - Pearson, doing something with a bunch of plants and shit over by his wagon; Micah, doing God knows what by himself out on the outskirts of camp; and Arthur, sprawled out on his bed and scribbling furiously in that journal of his.

Uncle's got his banjo out, giving Javier a break from guitar duty. The group is singing along to songs. John is as well, despite not knowing half of the words to said songs. Abigail is sitting next to him legs crossed and hand on his thigh, Bill to his opposite side. He could not possibly be more uncomfortable. Bill smells sickly of alcohol and piss and Abigail's general presence causes John annoyance. The woman is kicking against his boot with her foot, smiling eagerly at him as if she hadn't just screamed at him mere hours earlier for something insignificant. He wishes he could just shove her off, the way her attitude is inconsistent. Mad at him one moment, happy to be around him the next. Claiming he’s her husband sometimes and a stranger other times. Goddamn women.

Bill has started to nod off a few songs in. John watches him passing out in his peripheral. Catches himself repeatedly as his head falls, jumping at any sort of sudden noise. Frustration builds steadily, and there is no way in hell for John to enjoy himself with two separate headaches on either side of him. Finally, the night is over for John when Bill rests his sweaty head against his shoulder. He’s had enough. Says his reluctant goodnights, slithers into his tent with as few words as possible.

From the angle he’s laying on his shitty bed roll, John can almost make out what Arthur is doing. He's leaned up against a wagon, and he's drawing something. Typical. John can tell it must be detailed, because it looks like he's carefully crafting it - turning his journal different which ways to shade. He blows on it, probably wanting all of the dust from the pencil lead to clear out. Patience, is what it requires.

John doesn't know shit about art, can hardly write his own name legibly, can’t draw, but goddamn if he didn't want to take a look through that journal. Wouldn't possibly judge Arthur's doodles as anything but true gems, because John can't draw a stick figure if he needed to do so to save his life. But to pick apart those words, those thoughts of Arthur's. For the man is so so _so_ intelligent, far more so than John himself. Or anyone else in the camp for the matter. It’s a different kinda smarts that Arthur’s got - the kinds that matter. Book smarts. Common sense smarts. Hosea was probably the next closest in it, with only the wisdom of a few extra years to put him in place. And Arthur had no problem telling John that fact. That John is dumb, anyhow. In fact, everybody else already knew and also-

Arthur turns his head slightly, his glance drifting exactly in John's direction. Eye contact. Arthur reacts instantly, quickly shaking his hair down across his face to block out the awkward realization that they had been staring at each other. Well, more John staring at Arthur. Arthur had just caught him doing so.

Caught doing something embarrassing for the second time in one night. And the worst part of the matter is that two time stupidity is not the record. John has his good days and his bad days as far as idiocy is concerned, and that’s only John. Others like Uncle, Bill, and Reverend Swanson have got him beat in that regard.

Well, that's enough of that.

Thinking, and whatnot. Enough.

John's head hits his pillow with a thud, and he rolls over to try to get some shuteye, pushing his dark hair away from his face.

 

The morning breaking was enough to wake John, because surprise, he had been he only half asleep practically the entire night due to being cramped in a small tent with Abigail and their son Jack, and _surprise_ , someone had kicked him in the face. Again. Surprise. Surprise, surprise.

After about 45 minutes or so of tossing and turning, John sits up to the sounds of rustling and hushed voices. It’s probably six or so in the morning and since everyone was up late at night around the fire, John is suspicious of all of the activity taking place out there.

Peeling back the flaps of the Marston tent ever so slightly, he sees Dutch and Arthur talking over by Dutch’s tent. It looked serious enough, but it’s only when John spots Javier walking and loading a shotgun that it occurs to him that they are going out on a job of some sort.

Of course they are.

Without John.

He’d gotten shot in Blackwater, sure, and then mauled by wolves not so long after that, _sure_ , but that didn’t mean that he wasn’t ready for some more action. Healing is fine and dandy, but glory is even better. And he’s sick and goddamn tired of guard duty and camp chores until he’s ‘feeling better’.

Who else knows how he feels besides his damn self?

And hell, he sure feels good enough to go with the boys.

He reaches out and grabs Javier's jacket as he passes. “Hey,” he whispers harshly, and Javier looks back at him most displeased and barely shocked by the sudden gesture.

“What, Marston?” he slings his weapon over his shoulder coolly, shooting glances towards Arthur and Dutch as if to make sure they didn't see the two of them speaking.

Suspicion confirmed.

Doing a job, purposely leaving John behind.

“Nothing,” John replies, having no other real purpose to talk to the other man. Javier rips his coat out of John's grasp before stomping away, clearly thinking the same thing.

John grabs his clothes and slips out of the tent, quickly changing into a black shirt and a pair of a little bit too baggy jeans, pulling his suspenders up over his shoulders.

He peers around the camp, trying to figure out where he should hide until after they set out. John figures if he is gone before Abigail and Jack wake, they will assume he was recruited as well. Which is what he needs them to think. And what everyone staying about should think.

John watches intently as everyone mounts their horses, doing quick last minute checks before departing. He stands up and dusts off his pants, reaching for his gun belt. As he turns to face his own horse, his chest is immediately assaulted by a firm hand being slammed against it.

“Just where in the hell do you think you're going?”

Arthur.

Why hadn't he seen that Arthur wasn't with them? Idiotic and rookie mistake.

Might as well jump right in to the argument, because Arthur is not a man to back down. “I'm tired of being left behind all the time, Arthur. I'm not a fucking kid. I want to-”

“You're still recovering, you moron!” Arthur reaches out and taps his palm hard on John's cheek, facial gashes still stinging. And they will for a long time, no doubt. But irrelevant to the situation.

“Wolf didn't scramble my brain, yanno,” John mumbles, brushing past the other man. “Or break my arms, legs, my goddamn back.”

He didn't have to lay eyes Arthur to know he shrugged at John's comment, could essentially see without seeing at all just the way his stubborn confidence was pouring through his rough exterior. Didn't have to see it. Saw it far too many a time.

He waits, foolishly, for an insult that never comes, standing with his back turned to where Arthur had been stood when he sees a sudden flash of dark brown, red, and gold.

What an asshole.

John whips around and races to his own horse, taking the reins in his hands and swinging his leg around the animal.

“Arthur!” John calls out to deaf ears; Arthur's horse is far faster and significantly more agile than his own. After nearly half an hour of tailing them, eventually Arthur peeks over his shoulder at John. He slows and allows john to catch him, rolling his eyes.

“You gotta keep up,” He grumbles, pointing to a tree in the distance. “Hitch your horse over there and get on. Not much farther, but far enough if you're gonna insist.”

John can’t stop the smirk from appearing at the corner of his mouth as he pats his horse and hops on behind Arthur.

His hand hesitates next to the other’s back. Not sure why.

“Hello? You there, Marston?” Arthur shoots him a venomous glare. “You're gonna fall off, you-”

“Shut the hell up, Arthur, Jesus,” John fires back, wrapping his arms around the other man's waist as he starts to ride.

John has got goodness in his sights. Gonna prove to Dutch that nothin’ can keep him down.


	2. Chapter 2

The journey is absolutely mute at first, save for the snorts and grunts of the horse. Arthur's hair keeps whipping John in the face, and he is consistently reminded why he hates riding two on. He leans back as far as he can to try to avoid the rogue strands of gold, fingers locked tightly together around Arthur’s midriff.

“So why you ridin’ separate?” John says finally, trying to dive head first into full conversation instead of dwelling with lame small talk. He can feel Arthur take a deep breath almost in clammed annoyance, and he tries to loosen his grip on the other man's abdomen a little in response.

Silence.

“You gonna answer me, Morgan, or are you just gonna-”

“Why you gotta hold on to me like that? Can't you just do somethin’ normal for once? You're digging your goddamn wrists into my gut,”

John temporarily releases him completely, as well as he can anyhow. He's never been good at this, keeping his balance on a horse. Challenging when you’re on your own beast, even more difficult when you’re on the rear of someone else’s with no saddle. Just another thing for the gang to poke fun at him for. And there’s plenty already. Terrible at shooting off horseback as well. Dutch always tickled him about how he held on so tight to the reins. ‘Chickenshit’, they’d called him.

Mental note to fight the next person who spits that bull at him.

After awhile riding with Arthur completely ignoring the questions John keeps asking him, they finally arrive at what looks like a camp of some sort - O'Driscolls most likely; Bunch of hoodlums holed up in some old farmhouse and the surrounding areas. This is the second time the gang had gone after them  _ at least _ since they'd gotten to the Heartlands, the last time being with that Kieran feller they’d wrangled up in Colter. John, Arthur, and Bill had gone with Kieran to one of their camps and shot the damn place up.

Dutch’s feud with Colm O’Driscoll is two sided, for sure. Boy, could John practically smell Arthur’s distaste for their leader's vendetta. He thought it was pointless, they’d both done wrong to each other. And Arthur had no qualm with telling Dutch all of this. He’d told John too. And Charles. They all hate Colm just as well, but Dutch is a different level entirely. Brings his focus off the real goal, Arthur’d said. But his words just got under Dutch’s skin like they usually do as of late and he had started screaming about a lack of trust or faith - a common theme in the camp these days. Definitely since the Blackwater heist. And keeping that Kieran feller at their camp had been a step too far. At least the man had graduated to free roaming around the grounds instead of being tied up to a tree and starving. So realistically, he could very well leave at any point if he really tried hard enough.

Might not make it far, though.

Whole sort is crazy, John thinks. Ridiculous, even. Arthur doesn’t like the man, Kieran, calling him an O’Driscoll despite his pleas and convictions otherwise. But no denying Kieran had saved Arthur’s life. And if that didn’t prove he was sure alright to the other guys, John isn’t so sure what would. Because it certainly proved it to him. Always a modicum of doubt until you get to know someone like the back of your hand, regardless, in this life anyhow.

Arthur pulls up just outside a group of trees and readily dismounts. John stays on Arthur's horse while he hitches it, and Arthur puts his left hand on his hip like an impatient momma when he sees John hasn't moved. Like someone getting real sick of their kid brother acting like a damn brat.

“C’mon,” he says harshly, still quietly. His tone of voice assaults John’s eardrums as if it were sharp like a blade.

John arches an eyebrow at him. “I don't fully understand what we're doing here,”

“C’mon!” Arthur repeats impatiently, reaching out to grab John's hand. Tugs on it.  _ Hard _ .

“Explain the plan to me first!” John argues, letting Arthur damn near pull his arm out of its socket.

A solo gunshot rings out and Arthur soils John's protest, once again proving that he's stronger by yanking him off the horse and forcing him flat to the ground. He gives a quick smack to his horse’s hindquarters and sends him off.

John can hear people questioning whether or not someone was out in the woods. Unsure if they heard the argument between the two or sending someone to scout, John starts to question the next move but Arthur shakes his head, hushing him instantly.

They're laying flat on the ground, heads sideways in the dirt. Arthur's breath is hot and smells of tobacco so close to John's face. He studies Arthur - eyes following the creases in his skin, smile lines, crows feet, scar on his chin. Freckles here and there. John is filled with admiration of the lack of expression Arthur is wearing. The lack of worry, fear. Calm, cool, collected. No matter how many scores, jobs, heists, missions or what have you, there is always the possibility of losing someone or something you care about. And Arthur seems unbothered by it all. It couldn't be for lack of caring for the gang. He clearly cares too much, no longer blindly following Dutch’s orders but actually trying to do what's best for camp.

Perhaps it's also a lack of concern for himself.

Or feasibly, it's just courage, and blessed are the courageous. Because John wishes so much that he wasn't afraid of death or the unknown. Wasn't scared of drowning or scorpions. Or tigers or tornadoes. Wishes that he could be reliable and worthy of Dutch’s attention and time. To be a golden boy like Arthur. The appreciated and loved son. Some might argue with him and say it’s the opposite, and maybe Arthur felt like the neglected older sibling while throughout the years. It’s possible, and if anyone is good at keeping their feelings to themselves, it’s Arthur Morgan; Despite this, no one could shake the feeling of worthlessness and inadequacy from John’s  heart.

The crunch of sticks and rocks through the brush signals someone approaching, waking John from his trance. He suddenly feels warmth against his lips. Arthur's fingers have found their way there, firmly resting in hopes of preventing any sort of noise he could possibly make. 

John feels slightly offended, irked that Arthur thinks so little of him that he would blow their cover. That he already had by throwing a fit.

Well, that thought would not be wrong. He did, in fact, blow their cover.

...By throwing a fit.

Muffled shouts in the distance. 

“You see anyone, Bobby?”

A voice a few feet away.

“Nah, must have been a coyote or something.”

“Seemed a pretty large one then.” Sarcasm in Not-Bobby’s voice.

“Well, shit,”

The guard walks away in defeat, continuing his conversation.

Arthur sits up and looks around, trying to keep a low profile for a minute before finally explaining himself. “I'm scouting this location,” he turns his attention from the camp to John, who is chuckling. “What's funny?” He growls.

“Look,” John reaches out and pulls a leaf from Arthur's hair, “you're a mess.”

Arthur rolls his eyes at John's snickers and disregards him. “I'm to attack this front when I've decided the best approach. And since you wanted to come so bad, I guess we'll go together. Lucky me.” he grumbles before standing up and fitting his hat back on his head.

The second his height reaches over the bushes, a light blinds him and John pulls him back down.

A wagon approaches, guards shining their lanterns out into the woods.

“There's a whole lot more of ‘em, now,” John whispers. He gives Arthur a sly smile. “Good thing there’s two of us. Lucky you.”

Arthur puts his knuckles to his lips to hide his laugh. Nice to see a break in his stone-cold facade. The pair watch the vehicle pass by, slowly, steadily. John raises his finger and points at the passerby.

“Do we take them?”

“No, not yet. Might as well wait for them to get inside. _ Or _ ,” Arthur tilts his head, signaling that he was about to give John a choice. And that usually means that John would get put on blast at some point, because it seemed that no matter his choice in the situation or the outcome of the events, his decision was wrong.

“Or,”

“Or, we could break into the little cabin and force an assault from there. We would have cover and they'd have their backs to the open. What do you think?”

John raises an eyebrow. “Wow,  _ the _ Arthur Morgan asking me my opinion?” 

Arthur's eyes roll nearly back into his skull. “Shut up,”

“Okay, fine, let's uh...let's go with the cabin approach. You said you were to attack this first? That mean the others gonna come runnin’ afterwards?”

Arthur reaches up and picks his teeth less than gracefully. He digs his dirty fingernail into his gums, plucking out pieces of tobacco. “Yep, the boys are up on that there cliff. Or rock, what have you,”

John nods. “Okay, right. Let's do that then. They'll provide support if we get overrun,”

“Couple a shots like us, we ain't nothin’ to worry for.” Arthur says, voice dripping with attitude. He runs his fingers through his dirty blond hair before grabbing his hat from the ground where it had just fallen a couple of yards away.

The man is foolish or overconfident - or a combination simultaneously -  and John isn't quite sure if he is willing to do dumb stunts because he is just so used to doing such stupid things with the gang or if he is just as brainless. Probably a little bit of both. But Arthur isn’t wrong. They are two of the best shots in the gang, along with Micah, but John prefers to pretend he doesn’t exist.

They creep up and John lets Arthur take out a few guards along the perimeter stealthily with his knife, another skill that Arthur has nearly perfected that John is practically incapable of. It's not even worth it for John to attempt stealth, as he nearly gets shot point blank every time after getting caught. Which happens  _ every time. _

Arthur whips out his pistols: silver carved with dark ornamental steel, and John wonders how much money he's spent on those suckers. If there were two things Arthur Morgan cared about, they were his Thoroughbred and his twin pistols.

Is that technically three things?

If there were three things Arthur Morgan cared about, they were his Thoroughbred and his twin pistols.

They make their way to just outside the cabin, and John peeks in a window. The coast is clear, no one inside. John nods to Arthur, whose eyes are not focused on him. He raises up one of his guns and fires once, the glass shattering and raining down on John. 

“What the hell!?” John shrieks, turning around and seeing a man in the cabin with a single bullet hole in his forehead sprawled on the floor. “Oh.”

“Missed him, did you?” Arthur retorts. “Are you blind?”

Gunshots echo from across the farm grounds, and John scratches his head. “Well, I reckon we better get inside and get in cover.”

“Smartest thing you said all day, Marston.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for taking time to read this! I hope I can make it more interesting in the upcoming chapters x <3


	3. Chapter 3

They’re able to hold down their own for quite a bit of time.  John figures the other gang members are across the way at the farmhouse, causing quite a ruckus as well when he starts to hear yelling about getting railroaded from both sides.

Arthur is the best shot that John knows - he’s got skill to compete with no others, not even Dutch. Things come natural to some folk, and John thinks shooting is something for Arthur. It’s kind of a sad truth, really, to be good at ending a man’s life. Wonders how heavy the gun feels in Arthur’s hands, because to John it feels like maybe a fat horse might just be lighter. All those men they just killed, sure, Dutch don’t like ‘em, and John don’t care for ‘em much either. But they probably got families at home as well, in fact, they do for sure.

They mourn too.

John’s post-shootout thoughts are interrupted by Arthur slapping a firm hand on his shoulder. “C’mon, boy, we done good here. Sounds like the others are comin’.”

The O’Driscolls have been flanked, and even though the events didn’t go completely as planned because John is an idiot, he is satisfied when Dutch comes riding along with the gang in tow, big grin on his face.

“We’ve got him!” He exclaims proudly.

Arthur raises an eyebrow. “Got who?”

“Colm!”

Highly doubtful.

Arthur smiles. It’s a fake smile, John knows that. The tired-of-your-bullshit smile mixed with the don’t-wanna-cause-problems laugh. John has been on the receiving end of that combination more times than he can count. For the most part, Arthur is pretty cool headed. Even if you’re being a goddamn moron, he usually just lets you on your way.

Unless your name is John Marston.

Then you get smacked, slapped, threatened.

But you know. In a brotherly way.

Because that’s what brothers do. Right?

“Regroup back at camp, and we’ll tell ya what we found. We got his location,” Bill worms his way up from the back of the group, spouting orders as if he is actually somebody important.

Dutch goes out of his way, making sure to ruffle John’s hair. “Nice job today, kid. I gather we can talk about the fact that you aren’t supposed to be here later on, hmm?”

Somehow, John is caught off-guard by the comment even though he knows he inserted himself into this job. Perhaps it’s the fact that Dutch voluntarily touched his head that has him shocked. It is pretty dirty, after all. There isn’t any time for John to respond to the man before he’s pulling Arthur aside, and the shame on Arthur’s face suggests that John doesn’t have to question what they’re talking about.

 

Arthur lets John ride his horse on the way back to camp. “You done good today, kid,” Arthur had said, patting the saddle as if he's a child who has just won a competition of some sort. As if he's to be praised.

But John takes it.

It's not often that anyone can even be remotely bothered to care about John at all, let alone praise him and be proud.

Also, it's nice to ride Arthur's horse. She's strong and fast. He'd just gotten her not that long ago when he and Hosea went into Valentine together, and Arthur looks at her like she is the only friend he's got; Feeds her oatcakes and bread with such a sincere look on his face. Like taking care of a child. John hears the man talk to his horse, brushing her mane and cooing at her in that stupid voice of his.

Stupid  _ stupid _ Arthur, being all sweet and shit.

John is a bit jealous, _ okay _ , John is  _ very  _ jealous that Arthur is always the one Hosea and Dutch do everything for. Sure, Arthur has been with them longer, but that's because Arthur is older than John. 

Dutch van der Linde's golden son with the golden hair and the strong frame and the responsible mindset and probably the most honor out of anyone in this band of clowns. The funniest part to John is that while he was growing up, everyone thought he was Dutch's proudest protege. People like Bill throwing daggers his way, envious of Dutch's favour. And maybe John sort of felt that way too. That he was special to Dutch and Hosea. But now that they're all older, John can see it clearly. Dutch and Hosea rolling his eyes at him and his ideas, calling him a moron. Arthur smacking him on the back of the head and acting like he himself has  never done a single stupid thing in his goddamn life. It's clear who is -

John suddenly realises he is weaving through the woods near camp already, and it's mildly terrifying that he doesn't remember any of that journey. It's like being drunk, when you wake up the next morning and you're painfully unaware of what's happened. And he had just traveled a decently long distance on horseback with Arthur wrapped around his torso probably talking to him.

Well, hopefully John responded to him if Arthur fucking asked him a question. 

Note to self: Don't ever drink and ride.

The camp is bustling with the useless and less useful when they arrive: Pearson, standing by his wagon acting like it takes him a full 24 hours to cook a single meal. Uncle, rotting on the ground next to Dutch’s tent with a bottle of whiskey in his hand. Reverend Swanson, passed out under a tree near the cliff overlook, and the women who aren't having _any_ of it. 

“John!”

Right. And Abigail and Jack.

John walks past Abigail and half embraces Jack, because that’s what fathers do, right? He ignores Abigail’s grunt of annoyance. John loves Abigail, no doubt. Loves his son. Their son.  _ Their _ son.

There's talk around camp Jack ain't his kid. And truth be told, maybe he ain't. But the boy is kinda cute and he definitely doesn't deserve the type of livin’ they got.

John isn't a good father. Isn't father material. He left the gang for a spell, didn't want to - or maybe just plain couldn't - deal with it. Couldn't deal with fatherhood or Abigail or Dutch or any of these folk. Gone for a year. Arthur still hasn't forgiven him. Still looks at him sideways sometimes. Not quite sure what got so under his skin about it. He's back, after all. Couldn't escape the life. He failed.

Perhaps Arthur is jealous. Jealous of what could have been. John knows Arthur has tried to leave before. He wonders if Dutch and Hosea had forgiven Arthur because it seems like the three of them still have yet to forgive John and the way he sees it, that ain’t quite fair.

Arthur leaving the gang is a funny thought to John. The man who lives and breathes loyalty and has questioned other people many a time for not being faithful enough. And him leaving was for reasons that Arthur would poke fun at anyone else for. A couple times for a lady - a lady who none of the gang particularly cared for - and once when he was just shy of 28. Right around John's 18th birthday. Right after, actually. It's John's favourite time of year. The time of year where he and Arthur are only 9 years apart in age due to John having his birthday and Arthur's being off in the distance a little ways.

Come to think of it, Arthur never spoke to John about that time. No one did. In fact, everyone was very hush hush about it. He shrugs off his thoughts, reckoning that time was for a lady as well. Sneaky bastard.

Micah, one of the less useful, approaches the group and locks eyes with John. His gaze shifts quickly between John, then to Arthur, back to John, and finally over in Dutch’s direction. He scurries over to Dutch, who is climbing down from the Count. Whispering shit in his ear, all secretive. And then Dutch’s eyes wander their direction.

Of course. Micah’s always got an issue.

If he had to stay back at camp, then why should John have gone? Irresponsible John.

John elbows Arthur in the ribs. “See that?” He can’t tell if Arthur is actually looking, but he feels the other man’s grip on his side loosen a bit.

Arthur sighs deeply. “Sure do,” He groans, hopping off of his steed and tying her to the hitching post. “Always somethin’ with that man.”

John is hit by the realisation that he’s left his horse out there, rode all the way back with Arthur.

Shit.

“Arthur…” He grins broadly at the blond, “...would you mind riding back out with me to get my horse?” He asks coyly, and Arthur’s look causes regret to fill John’s entire body.

“Can you at least wait awhile? We did well, today, kid, I want to celebrate a little bit.”

John is still on Arthur’s horse, looking over at the fire. “But later tonight? Don’t wanna leave him out there by his lonesome overnight.”

Arthur rolls his eyes and takes off his hat, scratching his head. He looks like a human mixture of solid exhaustion and frustration. “Yeah, yeah. That’s fine. It’s not too far.”

  
  


John ends up reading a book on a little slab of rock that juts out below the main cliff face instead of listening to the debrief by Bill of all people and the angry bombardment by Micah and Dutch about John’s involvement. He tries to find a secret hideout away from all the riff raff in each camp they've had, a little of slice of genuine home where he could be truly by himself if he so pleases. 

Just before sundown, he pokes his head up over the edge of the rock and spies about looking for Arthur. Spotted with a drink in his hand and a smile on his face - a rare sight - Arthur is grinning and enjoying himself instead of being a stick in the mud. 

John had overheard someone talking about Arthur and Lenny going into town and getting shitfaced drunk and arrested for causing a disturbance some time ago. John kind of felt annoyed by their friendship. They'd been doing jobs together and laughing around the fire. Everybody treats John like an absolute child, and yet he is quite a few years older than Lenny.

“Arthur,” John says, approaching the group and stopping back a few steps from him. And to be fair, the words are rather quiet when they leave his lips. 

No response. Javier looks up from his perch on the other side of the campfire, not even bothering to lift his head. The flames dance off the whites of his eyes and his level of unamusement sits weirdly with John. He knew Javier never really much cared for him, or at least he thought so. Arthur had said that Javier was worried for John’s safety when the two went out looking for him and that fact shocked John. He couldn't tell who Javier actually liked. The man was just so different from everybody else - a neat freak and an isolationist. Strange fit for a bunch of rough and tumble fuckers. Javier  _ actually _ cared how he smelled. Crazy.

“Arthur,” John repeats, this time a little louder. He reaches out for the older man's shoulder. “Arth-”

“Johnny boy!” Arthur exclaims, wrapping a strong arm around John's neck and pulling him closer. He misses and underestimates his strength, sending John crashing down onto the log he’s sitting on with a thud.

John's hand flies up to his lip, which,  _ great!  _ He's just split from hitting his face against the wood and catching it on his teeth. “Goddah eh, Arfur,” John spits, holding his bloody lip, weaseling his way out of his grasp and collides his fist against Arthur's jaw.

It one hundred percent hurt John more than it hurt Arthur, but Arthur reacts immediately, standing up and grabbing John by the coat collar. “Boy, I'm just tryin’ to enjoy my drink, and you're-”

“You promised to help me with...the thing, Arthur. C’mon,”

John knows very well that no one would take too kindly to the two of them riding out together while everyone else is trying to have a good time and enjoy themselves. John also knows very well that people were angry at him for spending that time by himself reading instead of dealing with everyone singing and dancing. More importantly, John doesn’t want to deal with someone’s sarcastic remarks about John having left his horse in the first place, because he wasn’t supposed to  _ go in the first place _ .

Dutch's voice slices through the yelling and laughter, causing everybody to go silent. “Cut it out! Don't act like foolish imbeciles! Enjoy yourselves, we've got more work to do tomorrow.”

Everybody stays pretty quiet for a few seconds before Bill, camp mother, speaks up. “Arthur, if you're gonna kick his ass, go do it somewhere else,”

Arthur is drunk and John knows Arthur never takes anything seriously when he's drunk, so he might as well just go get his damn horse by his damn self.

John starts walking away from the group, and Arthur follows sloppily behind him.

“John, come back here boy. I'm sorry, I just forgot is all,”

Maybe drunk is not the correct word, but instead perhaps ‘liquored up enough to be an idiot but still coherent enough to know what's going on around him’ is more appropriate.

John isn’t having it. There’s no excuse at this point. Too many things were pissing him off in too short of a time. “I'm taking your horse if you're coming along. Or I'll just walk. I don't really care anymore.” John grabs Speckles’ reins.

Arthur's horse had a real name, on paper, that is. But he told nobody because when he brought her back to camp, Jack had called her Speckles and that took precedence over everything else. It was silly to hear a grown man talking softly to his horse, calling her Speckles as he brushes her mop. But he'd done it for Jack. And John is thoroughly convinced that Uncle Arthur would do anything for Jack. It’s mildly endearing, especially since John himself is useless in that regard.

“I'll come along. Wait. I promised you, didn't I?” Arthur slurs, wobbling about as if he can’t handle himself. But John has seen him utterly wasted, and this is not one of those times. John ignores his words at first and mounts up. He finally reluctantly holds out his hand to Arthur, unsteady, as he swings his leg around the animal. John is suddenly hit with concern for Arthur's ability to ride back home safely, recalling his journey earlier that he doesn’t remember whatsoever.

“Actually, I'll just walk. You're gonna kill yourself and your horse if you try to ride by yourself,” He starts to dismount.

Arthur swats at him. “No, no, get back on, I'll be alright. Half an hour's ride is at least an hour's walk. Let's go,” 

John shrugs. “Okay, mister,” he says, voice sore. Arthur is laughing, John isn’t sure why, and he wonders if he shouldn’t just leave it until the morning.

“Let’s go!” Arthur hollers again, this time unnecessarily loudly, definitely alerting the camp to their activity which is the exact opposite of what John originally wanted to happen. “Here we go, boy!” He shouts, spurring his horse from behind John.

Well, if he insists. And Arthur always insists.


	4. Chapter 4

Not quite ten minutes in and the ride already feels extra long and tiresome with Arthur's arms wrapped ungodly tight around John's waist, his deep voice humming songs in his ear. If John wasn't so irritated, it might almost be kind of nice. Spending time with Arthur in general is decent, long as he keeps his mouth shut.

Because if it's open, he's usually insulting John. 

“You punched me, Johnny,” Arthur gurgles, stabbing into John's shoulder blade with his chin.

“Yep, I sure-”

“It didn't hurt, really, but I'm gonna tell them it hurt,”

John pauses. Tell who? He figures he should pick his battles and doesn't respond.

A few more minutes drag past and John receives a sensation he can only attribute to Arthur resting his cheek against his back. “You sleepin’ back there? Jesus,”

“Nah. I'm just comfortable,” Arthur whispers, and the sudden added pressure to his abdomen leaves John to assume the other man is starting to slip off the horse. Ridiculous.

John tries to wiggle his body a bit in an attempt to force Arthur to sit up straight. He isn't quite sure why he is acting this way - he definitely didn't seem totally gone back at camp and he certainly hasn't had any drinks on the ride. Maybe he's being played a fool. Or maybe he just is a fool and Arthur is drunk and they should have never came out here.

“Johnnnnnnn,” Arthur groans, piercing his fingers into John's stomach.

This is getting unacceptable.

Arthur is playing the piano against John’s jacket. John chomps on his tongue, all of his willpower draining from his being. Until finally...

“I gotta piss, John.”

Of course he does.

John sighs. It's really not the time for this. He pulls on the reins and halts Arthur's horse. “Off with you, then.” The last thing he wants to do is have to help Arthur not make a goddamn mess of himself-

“Off with  _ you!” _

Arthur suddenly shoves John full force off the animal, swiftly falling flat onto the ground with a thud.

“What in the hell was that!?” John shouts, grabbing Arthur's leg and yanking him off the horse in retaliation. “What is  _ wrong  _  with you!?”

Arthur cackles, spreading his arms out wide and making an angel figure in the grass. 

“Goddamn childish. You don't even have an excuse, you're not that drunk. For the love of all that's holy, Arthur,” He stands up and walks over to a grumbling John, nursing his newly reopened lip. “Get away from me.”

“You hurt yourself?”

John stops dusting off his clothes temporarily, his jaw dropping open in disbelief. Is he serious? Can’t be. “You slammed me onto a log, and you just _ ten seconds ago _ threw me off your horse you goddamn-”

Before John can finish his sentence, Arthur is pulling him into an embrace. “I'm sorry, buddy, I didn't mean to hurt ya.” He cups his hand around the back of John’s head, tapping his fingers oddly about in his hair.

John chooses to ignore the fact that Arthur absolutely did both of those things that hurt him purposely. “Arthur, you're gonna get blood all over you,” he says solemnly, tries to pull away from the other man. Can’t be bothered to deal with this. Just wants his damn horse back, hitched safe at camp.

And sure shit, Arthur's got blood all over his shoulder and twisted in his blond hair where John had just been nuzzled. Completely unintentionally. Involuntarily. Because it were Arthur that ignited all of this. “You gotta wash that off,” John says plainly, feeling like he's scolding Jack for something frivolous. Because Jack is a just a boy. And well, right now, he don’t seem so bad as dealing with Arthur.

John watches Arthur tug on his tainted hair, biting his lip and looking so determined to get the red stains out using nothing but his thumbs. Secondhand embarrassment is what it is, staring at Arthur stupidly fondling his locks, licking his thumb, scrubbing at the hair as if it’s really gonna come out. Foolish drunk man.

John feels a bit strange, almost as if he is in recovery from something. Not falling off a horse, not splitting his lip, not shooting O'Driscolls, but from Arthur giving him a hug. Arthur is not affectionate to anyone, in fact, he is rather cold. Almost always has been. At least for the last few years, anyhow. Even with him being tipsy, a hug from Arthur Morgan is quite like getting struck by lightning. Equal in chance as well as the feeling, John figures.

“I'm gonna tell them we got attacked,” Arthur suddenly exclaims, “BY A BEAR!” he reaches his arms up and extends his fingers as far as he can, clawing at the air. “Hosea will be thrilled!”

John snorts, trying to hold in a laugh. “Hosea’s gonna be glad we got mauled by a bear? Who's gonna believe that? And why would you even say that?” Shaking his head, John turns back towards Speckles when he feels Arthur's hand on his shoulder. 

“C’mere,” The older man places his fingers on John's lip. John twitches in surprise, eyes practically bulging out of their sockets as he watches Arthur retract, dragging those same fingers along his own face. Blood smears diagonally across his mouth, down to his chin. “We got in a fight.”

John stares blankly, not processing what he's just witnessed. Arthur reaches out again, but John intercepts his wrist, clutching it heavily. “What are you doing?” He calls out frantically, confused. 

“Lyin’,” Arthur replies softly, his words unwavering. He cocks his head slightly to the left, arching an eyebrow at John. He pushes on despite John's loosening grip on his own arm, wiping up more blood and depositing it on himself.

John's lips hang slightly ajar, unsure if the man has gone completely insane. He squints at his fellow gang member for a moment before backing away towards the horse.”Let's...go now,” John says, shifting his glance toward literally anything  _ other  _ than Arthur.

John looks over his shoulder, watching Arthur singing to himself as he sways back and forth. Looks unsteady, despite standing in one spot and not moving much.

“You comin’?” John hollers, hesitating at the horse's saddle. “Got a little further to go yet, Arthur.”

Arthur’s eyes are closed, and he takes a few rickety steps before he starts to fall over sideways. John lunges for him, but it’s an unwise decision. John knows that he can’t support Arthur’s weight, especially like this. They both crash to the ground, and John lets out an audible grunt of discontent.

“I’m tired of this. Let’s go.  _ Now.” _ John stands up, brushing his jeans off and grabbing Arthur’s arm forcefully. “Get up, Arthur. I’m not bein’ funny.”

Arthur laughs despite John’s words and uses his knee to prop himself up. He latches onto John, grabbing both sides of his face and resting his forehead against the other’s. John instinctively attempts to back up, escape his assailant, but Arthur’s grip is true.

“John,” he whispers, stroking his dirty fucking thumbs acros John’s cheekbones. While he’s not hitting them directly, the skin around his wounds is still sore, and John is completely sick of this bullshit. Surely it’s usually the other way around, but John just wants to go home with his horse. “You’re so…”

John tries to crane his neck back, tries to break from him once more before giving up. He sighs, resting his hands on Arthur’s strong shoulders. The smell of alcohol on Arthur’s breath is purely nauseating, the stench invading his nostrils like a full army.

Arthur leans farther in, pushing against John’s brow with intense force. “You’re so beautiful, John. Look at you,” And Arthur is absolutely  _ not _ currently looking at him. Tip of his nose maybe. His hands migrate from John’s temples to his cheeks, and John winces at the pressure assaulting his cuts. “So  _ good _ .”

John squints at Arthur, who has finally pulled away at least a little bit. He opens his mouth but struggles to find the words to properly reply.

Well, _ if  _ there even is a proper response to this bullshit.

“You’re actin’ crazy, brother. We gotta get you home. Wait here,” He crouches down, guiding Arthur to lay in the grass again. “I’ll walk from here, it’s not too far now. I’ll come and get you when I get my horse, alright?”

Arthur nods, his palm lingering against John’s cheek as long as it possibly could before he turns and starts on his way, Arthur’s hand suspended mid air as John departs.

 

John collects Old Boy exactly where he'd left him, feeling pretty thankful that no rustlers or madmen had gotten ahold of the animal. “Bet you thought I’d forgotten about you, huh, mister?” He pats his horse’s neck affectionately and smiles at the small snort he receives in response.

On the way back to Arthur, dread pools inside of John for multiple reasons. He doesn’t want to put up with the other man in his current condition. It’s John’s own fault, really, he should have just came by himself. Nevertheless, hopefully Arthur is going to start settling down soon. It’s been long enough to where he should start to know better again.

And the final nail in the coffin is that everyone is going to make a stink about them leaving to begin with. They act like it isn’t a big deal, everyone can go and do as they please. But it sure seems like every time John attempts to do something to help out the gang, like hunting or scouting, Dutch or Hosea come at him with the full force of an iron horse. Hitting him with the  _ ‘You could have attracted the law to us! You’re not careful enough, boy!’ _ nonsense.

Because Arthur had to yell as they were leaving.

Nothing ever goes according to John’s plans. Especially his harmless ones.

 

When John approaches Arthur, sprawled out in the grass next to his horse, he sighs heavily. He’s kicking his feet in the air like an unamused toddler; Upon approach, John is completely befuddled at the sight of a bottle of whiskey in his hand.

“Where the hell did you get that?” John barks.

“Brought it with,” Arthur croaks. “Got thirsty. My pal was takin’ so long and all.”

John shakes his head furiously and points at Speckles. “Get on your horse.”

“Well, if I didn’t know any bet-”

“Get on the goddamn horse, Morgan.”

Arthur tosses the half-full bottle out into the field and throws his arms up in exasperation. “Okay momma! Sure!”

The absolute nerve of Arthur, acting like an immature maniac. 

John tries very hard to ignore him completely all the rest of the journey. Disregards his humming, singing, whatever other garbage had been spilling out of his mouth. Doesn't want to look at him, see another man with John's blood on his face unless he were an evil bastard and it got there because John had just put a bullet in his goddamn head.

Until he hears a thump and an unidentified noise behind him.

Laughter.

Whipping around, he sees Arthur is on the ground, laughing because he’s just fallen off his horse.

Shouldn’t be surprised now, figures he might as well just forget it and head off.

“I’m gonna leave you there, you piece of shit!” John hollers, hands flying up to his forehead. He digs his thumbs into his temples, stressed out and riddled by a migraine. Unbelievable, is what it is. This situation.

Abandon him there John does. And it takes only a few minutes before Arthur is flying past him, leaving him in a literal cloud of dust, signature of the roads in Scarlett Meadows. So not only did John have to twist Arthur’s drunk arm to go along with him, he had to babysit him the whole time, and now Arthur has still managed to make it even worse by subliminally kicking John in the throat: winning a race that John didn’t even try to participate in. Didn’t want to, but still feeling the shame of loss.

 

Arriving at camp is no less awkward than the ride getting there, albeit a little bit more silent because Arthur doesn't say a single word to John as he pulls up. They both scramble to hitch their horses at opposite sides of the clearing and trying to quickly make a break for their respective tents without uttering a sound to one another. John can only hope that Arthur is starting to sober up, and he quickly swerves out of the way of an approaching opponent.

“What's that all over ya, Arthur?”

John can make out Micah's voice, faintly in the distance as he creeps toward his destination. Arthur's rumbly voice is difficult to hear when muffled, but whatever he said has Micah up in arms. What John assumes is an argument ensues, but he can truthfully only understand bits of what Micah is saying. ‘Left’, ‘Marston,’ ‘Reckless,’ ‘Boys’, ‘Dutch’. John wiggles his way around Abigail and Jack, already sleeping in the tent, peeling back a flap to make sure he can see the confrontation. His visuals are slightly impaired from here, and his eavesdropping ability narrows down to nearly naught, but John can see Arthur grab Micah by the collar of his jacket, definitely yelling something in his face until Micah tears away from him, stomping his feet before fleeing. John pretends to not notice Arthur look over his shoulder at his tent, hastily slipping away from the tent opening.

What a day that he’s had - invading a job that originally had nothing to do with him and then getting mauled by a bear. John rubs his eyes so hard he feels like they might never open again, knuckles digging against the orbs. He sighs, head pounding and a million thoughts soaring through his mind like a herd of wild horses. And on top of it all, he gets to look forward to Dutch’s scoldings in the morning, and probably a whole lot of ‘disappointed but not surprised’ lectures from Hosea and Susan. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Side note: I have been writing this on my phone so I apologise for any strange misspellings, random words and odd punctuation. My phone's autocorrect is absolutely atrocious ugh.  
> ** Also, thank you so much to everyone who has read this far and left me feedback. Please continue to do so, I appreciate it to the ends of the Earth!!! I am actually not too impressed with this fic so far so I hope I can improve it quickly for all of you. Much love x


	5. Chapter 5

John stares at himself in the mirror. He grabs at his chin, running his fingers across the prickly hairs that line it. The gashes on his jaw and cheek will definitely scar. It's already begun, the process. And now this stupid shit on the other side of his lip. He stares at the wounds. Stitched sloppily and a gruesome unfortunate reminder of his stupidity.

“Where'd you get those scars, mister?” John mumbles to himself in a high childlike voice. “Yep, got clawed by some wolves. ‘Oh, how cool!’ Not really.”

“Talking to yourself?” 

John jumps slightly, not expecting to see anyone around him. He'd snatched Arthur's mirror and taken it over to his little alcove by the cliff edge.

It's Mary-Beth.

She has a single flower in her hand, yellow petals. She peers over the ledge at him, and he imagines he probably looks quite stupid. Looking back at her, head tilted and scratching his chin.

“Maybe a little. You've caught me, Miss.” John forces a smile, before focusing his attention back on the mirror. In fear of her being here to try to get him to be a better father or some other rubbish, he tries to avoid offering her assistance in coming down to his level. Maybe she would walk away.

….Nope.

She jumps down, wiggling her arms trying to keep her balance and well,  _ not _ fall to her death. “That's...really steep,” she says quietly, falling backwards against the rock and scooting closer to John.

He bites his lip. He was really hoping to not have to deal with this. “What did Abigail send you for?”

Mary-Beth looks mildly surprised at the question, raising an eyebrow and puckering her lips. She pulls a ringlet from behind her shoulder, twirling it around her finger absentmindedly. “Abigail didn't send me,” she presents the flower, now missing a few petals from abuse caused by the jump. “For you, John.”

John's gaze darts from the flower, to Mary-Beth's eyes, back to the flower again. He forces himself to take it, unsure of her intentions if indeed no one had sent her.

“Many thanks, Miss.” He awkwardly sets the flower down next to him and sighs before continuing to study his new facial accents, hoping if he ignored her well enough that she would go find someone else to pester.

John can see Mary-Beth shuffling out of the corner of his eye, most likely unsure and self conscious about the entire situation. “They're gonna heal, John. And you'll look great,” she says. When he doesn't respond, she adds, “Better than ever.”

While he appreciates the sentiment, he would really rather she just leave him be. He came out here to be by himself, to be sheepish by his lonesome. Because, well, she's lying about his looks, and on top of that, he doesn't really care for her to compliment him anyhow. Especially if Abigail didn't send her. Because Lord knows if Abigail knew he was out here with Mary-Beth, hell would feel less full of flame.

“It's probably about time that Mister Pearson has finished the stew. You think so?” John blurts out, standing up and looking back at the camp. She nods in agreement and helps herself up the ledge back to the camp. He’s annoyed, and it’s definitely more so about the fact that she called him out on his self-esteem issues. Everyone was always calling him ugly anyhow, so it’s not like these scars are going to ruin anything handsome. John turns his attention back to the flower, a little wonky looking but sincere in nature. He grabs it, nearly completely limp in between his thumb and curled index finger. He'll give it to Jack.

 

Everyone is gathered around the stew pot, and the coveted table and campfire seats have all been occupied by those who had been anxiously awaiting this meal for the past few hours. Those with nothing better to do besides moan about having no money and then have the gaul to not contribute whatsoever to the camp funds besides a shitty pelt or a few cents here and there.

John leans up against a tree with his bowl. He feels like an outsider looking through a shop window in his own camp, despite having roots here deeper than a decade. He looks to his left upon hearing some miscellaneous noises.

Kieran.

“Hey,” John calls out. Kieran turns away instantly, defensively guarding his lunch as if he were expecting John to knock it clean out of his hands. At least the poor bastard had been upgraded to free roam around the camp and a hot meal every other day.

“What are you doin'? Look at me when I'm talking to you.” John barks, and Kieran slowly turns his direction. 

“W-what do you want?”

John smirks. “Just wanted to say hello, I suppose. How's your stew?”

Kieran's eyes dart anxiously between John and his bowl as if he can’t believe that someone is trying to have an actual conversation with him. And that’s fair, because the man’s been isolated from the start, really. “Fine. Quite fine, really. Good even.”

John nods. Kieran was speaking too fast, scared. But he doesn’t pay that any mind. They finish off their meals, standing near one another in silence for a few minutes. But it's a comfortable silence, and John can tell that Kieran is appreciative for it. “Mighty kind of you to save Arthur the other day,” John says softly, laying his dish in the grass and cracking his knuckles. “We owe you.”

Kieran looks like he wants to speak, wants to say a lot of different things. But he doesn't. Bashful. His mouth opens and lingers on some words, but he's unsure. And truth be told, John gets it. Well he doesn't, because he ain't ever been in such a situation. Never been stuck with a bunch of hooligans against his will. But he sees Kieran's reluctance. Can't imagine getting kidnapped and treated like an absolute animal, even after saving the life of one of his captors. 

“Hey. Kieran, I'm over here.” John says, clapping his hands and waving to the other man.

“Sorry Mr. Marston. I just -”

“Don't you apologise. I'm  _ thanking _ you. I figure you ain't heard much of those words. Just want you to know I'm grateful for what you did.” John picks at his teeth. “And I know Arthur is grateful too. He just don't say it much.”

“He takes awhile to warm up to a man?” Kieran turns to face John, dropping his walls a little bit.

“Hell. He still don't like me too much I reckon, since I tried to leave and all.” John laughs.

Kieran tucks some of his hair behind his ears, stare shifting from the ground back up to John. “Why did you do it, if I may? Leave, I mean.”

“Well, I'd be a lyin’ man if I told you I hate this life and these people. I thought I was better than this. I guess I thought maybe I could get out. Could escape it all. But truth is, I love it too much. The people, I guess. They're my family.” John laughs a bit. “Bill, Arthur, Javier, Charles,” He puts a hand on Kieran's shoulder. “Maybe you some day. They're my brothers.”

A grin pulls at Kieran’s cheeks, transforming him into a child seeing a puppy or his favourite book. “Some day.”

John takes off his hat and grabs his bowl, heading back to Pearson's wagon to deposit the dish. He stuffs the hat under his arm as he sees Pearson scooping the remainder of the stew into another bowl. Just as John nearly escapes, the other man has cornered him.

“John, would you mind taking this to Arthur? He's over there. He didn't come to get any food. I'd do it myself, but he called me a walrus the other day and I'm still a tad irritated. Acts like a fool.” Pearson shoves the fare at John. The contents nearly spill on him and he scoffs, shifting his gaze to where Pearson has directed him: a little clearing on the opposite side of camp from John's artificial recluse abode where Arthur is sitting in the grass.

John struggles to keep his balance as he navigates through tons of brush, fallen tree branches and fox holes in the ground toward the blond, whom John has been ignoring for the past few days after the horse incident. “Arthur, are you hungry?” John powers the bowl to the man, hunched over his journal as per usual. Arthur quickly slams it shut at the sound of John's voice, but not before he was able to catch a glimpse of the scenery he'd been drawing. The view directly in front of him, the sprawling horseshoe of the river in a beautiful valley. 

“Could eat, I suppose.” He replies emotionlessly, leaning backwards. John snickers at the sight, the whites of Arthur’s eyes popping out next to his tanned skin as he looks at John upside down.

John's eyes drift to the nature surrounding him

Flowers.

With yellow petals.

John stands there like a moron, unsure of what to say.

Well, he obviously isn't going to say anything. More like unsure of what to think. 

“Give her here, Marston. Don't taunt me.” Arthur reaches up to him with grabby hands,  taking the bowl delicately and sipping the side of it instead of using the spoon like a civilised man.

John stares absentmindedly at the blooms surrounding Arthur. He wonders what the reasoning could possibly be for him to have sent Mary-Beth to gift John the flower. Strange folk.

He fixates his eyes on Arthur, tilting his head to get all of the juice from his stew. Glares at his fawn colored hair strewn across his back, looking exceptionally long as he scrapes the remnants of vegetables into his throat. Golden especially at the tips where it curls out. The only place it curls. John thinks about his own hair, matted and grisly at almost all times, looking dirty and hideous. Stringy. And muddy colored to boot.

“Well. Are you gonna sit?” Arthur asks, tossing his leather bound book into the grass.

John has an internal crisis. Does he call Arthur out on the flower? Does he leave it? What the hell did the flower even mean?

Why?  _ Why? _

He plops down next to Arthur, crossing his legs and twiddling his thumbs. “What were you drawing?”

Arthur's head rolls lifelessly on his shoulders so that he can shoot daggers at John.

“Nothing.”

Alright.

“Alright.”

Well, that was a good talk.

“I really would like to learn how to draw better, I think,” John says after a few moments of silence.

“I believe you’re confused. What you meant, friend, is that you'd like to learn to draw. Period,” Arthur sneers, undoing his shirt collar a few buttons. 

John rolls his eyes. “Not all of us are as talented as you naturally. I got other things I'm better at.”

“Oh?” Arthur shifts his position. He rests his elbows on his knees, lighting up a cigarette. “Like what, being a useless greasy bastard?”

John snarls. 

“Can't swim, can’t hardly shoot, can't-”

“There ever been a nice word come out of that mouth of yours?” John interrupts him and snatches the cigarette out of Arthur's grasp. God damn. There’s always gotta be a comment. A remark. A point to prove.

Arthur looks mildly impressed by his boldness. He smirks and sloppily runs a hand through his hair. “Been a lotta nice things come out of my mouth. Just not sure you'd wanna hear ‘em, Marston.”

John studies him. Man's got a strange look on his face. Cocky, really.

He hesitates briefly before passing the grit back to Arthur, who takes a long drag. John watches him inhale, watches his chest rise and fall, watches the smoke pour out of his nostrils. “And what does that mean to me?” John asks.

The moment of silence between them is unsettling, and John wonders why he’s asked that question. Not a bad question, really, just stupid. And useless. Strange question. He starts to recant, but before he can, he notices a grin appearing on Arthur's face as he scrunches his nose up. He reaches out, sticking the cigarette between John's slightly parted lips. “You got confidence, boy?”

John is at a loss for words. He takes the object out of his mouth and ashes it on his boot, quickly standing up and chasing after the other man as he walks toward the journal he had discarded earlier, a piece of folded paper sliding out unnoticed in his urgency. “What the hell are you gettin’ at here?”

Arthur shakes his head, his hair shining in the afternoon sunlight. He makes his way toward the outskirts of camp where the horses are tied at their respective hitching posts.

“Arthur, wait!” Arthur waves his hand in response, not bothering to turn back around.

John rubs his hands across his face, yawning and dusting off his pants. He turns his attention to the piece of paper he’d seen Arthur drop. He reaches for it, unfolding it with a sigh. A letter from Mary. The lady Arthur had tried to leave the gang for. Multiple times. She’s near Valentine, and of course Arthur will be paying her a visit.

What a fool Arthur Morgan is. A fool for this woman who disapproves of his lifestyle, of his family. Nobody in the gang been fond of her and her uptight daddy, always threatening to call the police on them. Sayin’ he knows enough about their escapades to report them. And knowing Arthur and his precedence of falling so hard, he’d probably gone and acted a little too loose-lipped around them folk. John grinds his teeth and picks a flower from where Arthur had been sitting, the impression of his weight left in the grass. He yanks the little thing from it’s security in the dirt, his insides twisting angrily and his head on fire. He groans, ripping off all of the bright yellow petals one by one before tossing it off the cliff to its doom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Side note: I have been writing this on my phone so I apologise for any strange misspellings, random words and odd punctuation. My phone's autocorrect is absolutely atrocious ugh.  
> ** Also, thank you so much to everyone who has read this far and left me feedback. Please continue to do so, I appreciate it to the ends of the Earth!!! I hope I can improve it for all of you. Much love x


End file.
